


The Heat In His Gaze, The Rhythm In His Heart

by Pink_and_Velvet



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Band Fic, Canon nods, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Teenagers, auditions, clubs, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: The man was mystical, rhythmic; catching Nigel in his trance. He could never resist a drummer, especially one with his beautiful smile.
Relationships: John Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	The Heat In His Gaze, The Rhythm In His Heart

_Rum Runner, Birmingham 1980_

  
Auditions for a new drummer had been interesting, to say the least. And by ‘auditions’… well, they had had a single offer.

The guy had shuffled into the Rum Runner, eyes tracing the carpet. He barely rose his gaze if he wasn’t greeting anyone or perching behind a drum kit.

Nigel had thought it odd but, all things about his shy and unloveable self considered, was beginning to see why the guy had been so timid around them. They were a clique, he and Nick, a twosome willing to make it three and wouldn’t just let anyone wander in and steal one of his chiffon shirts and scarf to match.

There was just something about this guy, his shyness, how a small smile had tugged at his lips as they found the courage to shake hands… Christ, that smile. It was unlike anything Nigel had ever been so lucky to see: so beautiful, full of beautifully white teeth trying to hide the insecurity and doubt.

Nick guided him to the drum kit and together they perched at the bar, two sets of manicured hands lying atop it. Nigel tried with might to keep his cool however his shielded eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from the mystical man, suddenly so small: head bobbing out between all the drums and cymbals.

He was incredible. His soul was pouring out through the complex, hard hitting long solos and through a more basic beat. The guy had immense talent, a whole new persona lighting up his skin: his eyes glowing and a hypnotic smile tugging at his lips.

Nigel was dazzled by those fingers, his musicality. Then he did that thing that had been making Nigel weak in the knees since he was about twelve and finally discovering bands for himself: he twirled those bloody sticks. Nigel shivered, a whole body shiver; eyes widening and mouth hanging open. There was just something about that motion, over stimulating, portraying the guy’s manual dexterity, a fluidity and a softness that Nigel thought no drummer could ever possess.

There was something truly special here trying to breech the surface. Nigel wasn’t sure what, he was too deeply submerged into his rhythmical trance. Head bobbing, painted nails tapping atop of the slick wood of the bar; he finally realised that he was being watched. Not only by Nick.

Another set of piercing brown eyes, that seemed to never leave his form, had locked onto his own. The gaze was intense enough to hold its own, passing through his thick-rimmed glasses and the fringe that had fallen into his eyes. Those piercing eyes didn’t waver, stutter, lose sight of their destination: throughout the rapid movements. Throughout the elegant movements. The guy had an incredible hand-eye coordination; such a strength in those arms that Nigel was hooked, mesmerised.

There was still something nagging at him, something small telling him that maybe this wasn’t the right way to go. He couldn’t pinpoint his doubt nor could he be sure they had found the right man either.

There was too much riding on this one, single decision: the perfect drummer to accompany his bass, the one and only rhythm section Nigel should ever need. Every gut instinct, not that he ever really had any, told him to bug out. Told him to drop the bomb… no, let Nick drop the bomb. Nick was always more approachable, he wouldn’t stutter or skirt around it unlike Nigel who, in that moment was sure, he wouldn’t be able to open his mouth without something idiotic dropping from his ruby stained lips.

Nigel wasn’t even sure when he had stopped playing. Only when the sudden rush in temperature, the newfound body heat at his side had he realised that there the guy stood, having closed in on him, hands clasped together and biting into his bottom lip.

He hadn’t even heard him speak yet, only Nick’s soft voice pierced through the air which suddenly seemed so thick it was as though Nigel was on something. A high, perhaps? Something natural, intoxicating but natural. Whatever it was seemed to flow merrily throughout his veins, causing his head to feel heavy and have him sit stock still, barely breathing.

Or was he breathing at all? He hastily focused his gaze back on the man before him, his stripy t-shirt that clung wonderfully to those muscular arms and his jeans had been turned up above the ankle. He wore white socks and Nigel could sense the fifties vibe. He wore a braided belt that was brown, muted: very classic.

It was then that Nigel released that yes, he indeed was still breathing: caught in the highs of his chest pounding in time with the drummer standing so eloquently before him: the small rises and falls of his chest starting to stabilise. Together they breathed in and out, in and out, eyes locking once again.

Nigel was struck with perhaps the most fascinating face, tantalising smile and a sparkle in those chocolate browns that he melted. He couldn’t speak nor could he tear his gaze away.

It was then that he realised that those lips were moving: the voice was smooth, soft; like a low hum that Nigel could play on repeat and eventually drift off into a peaceful slumber too. He didn’t sound like a drummer.

“Roger, Roger Andrew Taylor.” He held out a hand to Nigel, who didn’t take it.

The realisation hit them both like a freight train.

“Taylor?!” Nigel finally found his voice, intermingling with Nick’s own outburst.

He cocked his head in Nick’s direction, the furrowed blonde brow caused him to chuckle. Nigel clutched at the ruffles of his shirt as his laughter grew more wild before tossing his head back and just howling. Nick had never seen him laugh so much before and mean it.

The smooth… Roger, what a nice name, spoke again. His voice cracked although it was only a whisper. “What,” He paused, clearing his throat, “what’s so funny? Did I do something wrong?”

Nigel snapped out of his laughter upon seeing such a downtrodden look of the face of the man before him. The guy’s gaze had settled back on the floor and it was clear that he wanted to continue talking but, much like Nigel himself, couldn’t find the right words.

Always the wingman, Nick stepped right in. Once his own laughter had subsided.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Roger.” He extended a hand, taking Roger’s in his own. “Nicholas Bates.” Then, he turned and coaxed Roger to turn with him.

Nigel could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“Nigel John Taylor, meet Roger Andrew Taylor. Seemingly, no relation.”

At that Roger’s eyes widened, a delightful look of curiosity and bemusement painted his handsome face. Nigel was blushing like mad and was well aware of how poorly his glasses would be hiding it and he slowly extended his hand, finally ready to shake.

Roger leant forward, he had a firm grip. Although slightly sweaty from the drumsticks and effortlessly twirling them, Nigel couldn’t focus on anything else. His hands felt clammy, he felt an electric shock strike through him, running up his right arm and setting his whole body alight with spark after spark. The grip was strong, stabilising; vocalising to Nigel everything he wanted to know about Roger in that moment.

With the release of his hand, Roger’s eyes dropped. Nigel felt a sudden loss: as though the contact, the bond; was already much deeper than anything he could have imagined. The lack of body heat felt like torture and he already itched to feel those strong hands again, to have them encase his own slender and calloused fingers. To hold him tighter, to pull him into the right direction.

“So, what do you think?” Nick nudged him, shaking him from his daze.

Nigel nodded profusely, overgrown black hair falling into his eyes. He shook his head before attempting to blow strand after strand away from his face.

Nick chuckled at the lack of verbal response. They were always on the same page, Taylor and Bates, and it was beaming down at them in flashing neon lights that yes; they had found the one.

Nick delivered the news and Roger’s face lit up, exposing new laughter lines. Nigel found himself studying them, the couple spots that littered his cheeks, how the light would catch the tops of his cheeks and how the shadow would add definition to that lovely jawline.

“So, you’ll uh, you know…” Nigel paused, taking a shaky breath and cursing himself for having tried to speak in the first place, “you’re in.”

“I’m in?” Roger repeated, staring straight through Nigel’s soft gaze.

“Yeah Roger, you’re most definitely in. Two Taylors are better than one!” Nigel grimaced at his cringe-fuelled words.

Then in perfect timing, as always, the keyboardist jumped in. “Welcome to Duran Duran, drummer!”

For the first time that night; Nigel was graced with the biggest, beaming smile from Roger. Their drummer. His drummer. He was beginning to like how that sounded.

“What does uh, the name mean?” Roger stammered out, excitement still pulsing through him.

Nick and Nigel locked eyes: confident hazel upon brown before turning back to Roger.

“Where did it come from? I like it, don’t miss understand me I do but I haven’t been able to place it.”

“It’s one hell of a story.” Nigel managed, looking directly into Roger’s eyes as he spoke. “Be thankful it’s not something more idiotic like… Arcadia.”

“Arcadia? We ruled that one out a while ago now, Nigel. Although perhaps one day it will come in handy.”

“I like it, Duran Duran: it just sounds… right.”

Nigel felt his heart flutter and brain turn to mush.

Roger. Roger Andrew Taylor. Their drummer. His drummer. The perfect edition to his ever growing rhythm section. The only rhythm section he would ever need.

Yeah, Nigel truly was beginning to love how that sounded.


End file.
